How I intended it

all words die

on books never opened

in darkened corners

covered in cobwebs,

damp with mildew,

spilling worms,

all writers are 

meant to be
forgotten,

obscured by

anonymity 

or in fame,
poverty or
riches--

to be the 

only thing that

remains, or

to be nothing--

words 

scrawled 

on grave

stones,

slowly 

eroding

like the 

body

like the 

mind

desperately

fading,

failing

black ink,
abyss,
oblivion.